Tides
by Firevega21
Summary: Good friends don’t abandon you, good friends don’t let themselves get cornered against stained, concrete walls, good friends don’t die, and good friends certainly don’t let you take the blame for it. Slash, HotstreakRichie...a Hochie


Disclaimer: I do not, and I will not ever, own any of the rights to _Static Shock_.

Author's Notes: Alright, then. After a long internal debate with myself, I decided that I was going to write a Hotstreak/Richie story. And, well…this was the product. Before anyone starts reading this, I just want to say that this story will deal with : character death, violence, blood, strong language, adult situations, depression, and a multitude of other spiffy things. Just, um, warning you. If you are fine with that, then by all means, read this story – _please_. I love reviews, so feedback is greatly, greatly appreciated.

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**Chapter One : All Good Things**

Richie thinks that, even for all of his grand achievements, even for all of the glowing praises he's received from teachers and students alike for his intelligence, even for all the nearly unblemished academic perfection he has always so effortlessly achieved, the general population of Dakota, of the world, must think he is a complete moron.

Which is totally unfounded, of course, because if there is one thing that has remained a constant in Richie's life, other than a certain dark skinned, offbeat boy, who doesn't even really count anymore, it's the fact that he is, and he thinks this in the least egotistical way, a certifiable genius. He's the brain; the kid in the know, the kid who, when everyone else was bumbling around on brightly colored, alphabet carpeting, was flipping leisurely through pages of dictionary, searching for newer, even bigger words, both to widen his vocabulary and so he could insult a few of the larger kids without receiving any kind of bullying.

Richie is the farthest thing from stupid. He's light years, _eons _away from any IQ lower than amazing, he's miles even from average. He has never, in all of his seventeen years, regarded his outstanding intelligence as anything less than brilliant, and he has always made sure to show people that, if nothing else, he was gifted with a great intellect.

No, Richie isn't stupid, and he's never given anyone reason to believe he is, but it doesn't seem to change the fact that people regard him as little more than a simpleton. They – classmates, gaggles of girls in too short skirts and boys in too long shirts, random people he has probably never even spoken to before – will stand in crowds, in pairings, watching him out of the corner of their eyes, whispering softly, but not to softly as to prevent anyone from hearing them, exchanging glances and comments and never even stopping, not once, because they thought he could hear them.

People talk about Richie, in plane view and ear shot, right where anyone could see or hear or witness. People talk about him as if they think he wasn't there, as if they think he lacks the intelligence to strain his ears the slightest bit to catch what they say, as if they think he is just to stupid to understand all the little murmurs and whispers and questioning looks. People talk about him, and he knows what they say.

Because Richie isn't stupid, no matter what the public thinks, and he knows what people say about him. He knows that there is quite a good percentage of people, male, female, students he knows, students he doesn't know, that seem to think he is a matter of great concern.

Personally, he finds it all ridiculous – the rumors, the talking, the watching, everything. Half of the people, over half of the people, who look at him and talk about him don't know him, they don't talk to him, they've never had a conversation with him and until a few months ago they didn't even know he existed. He thinks that these people, the people that just won't stop _staring_ at him all the time, are the real idiots, the real brain dead fools.

All these people do is look at him, and their minds start clicking, and they start thinking, 'Hey, he's the kid who…', and that's all they ever know, that's all they need to know, all the ammunition they need to turn to their friends and point and whisper. All these people do is see his face, his eyes straying to the floor since he can't really find the courage to actually face people anymore, and they think, 'Hey, he's the kid whose friend died…', and that's all they will ever know, that's all they will ever want to know, because even though they talk and whisper and pity and hate him, none of these people are ever going to approach him, ever going to try to figure out anything else about him.

Richie would call it insult to injury, he thinks. It's not enough that his best friend, his only friend, the only person that ever actually meant anything to him, was murdered by some no face, no name, no future kid with too many frazzled nerves and just enough gun powder, it's not enough that for months the general population assumed that he _was_ that no face, no name, no future kid, and it's not enough that just because he stumbled into the wrong alley way on a Thursday morning he's lost everything he ever had – everybody has to gossip about it, too. Everybody has to talk about him, everybody has to put in their two cents, everybody has to theorize his part in the death of that poor, innocent Virgil Hawkins, everybody has to steer clear of him and treat him as if he were diseased, everybody has to stare at him with blank eyes that turn to swirls of shaky rage and disdain and a kind of unfounded hatred that will never dissipate.

Sometimes, late at night, when he can't sleep and can't stay awake, Richie thinks he hates himself too. Hates himself with something that makes his body feel as if every bone, every calcium, ivory joint beneath his skin, is nothing but poison, nothing but a kind of fire that destroys and takes and devastates, something that makes it too hard to breathe and too hard not to scream and too hard to stay still.

He still hates Virgil, more, of course. He'll always hate Virgil just a little more, with just a fraction more razor edged heat than himself, because it's Virgil's fault he's here in the first place; Virgil's fault he is sitting outside on the bleachers with no one to talk to, Virgil's fault that everyone talks about him and treats him as if he were an insignificant, unintelligent, filthy monster. It's all Virgil's fault. Because Virgil died, because Virgil had a moment of weakness when for some reason, some strange and unknown and inexplicable reason, he couldn't use his powers, couldn't fight back or save himself, because Virgil let himself be killed, because Virgil abandoned him.

Good friends don't abandon you, good friends don't let themselves get cornered against stained, concrete walls, good friends don't die, and good friends certainly don't let you take the blame for it.

Of course, Richie knows he can't actually justify his complete and total loathing of the other boy, because if he was being logical and rational, he would know that Virgil hadn't let himself be killed, Virgil hadn't let himself be murdered, Virgil hadn't let the cops try to put Richie behind bars for his murder. But Richie is seventeen and alone and cold and so tired of logic and being smart, and he thinks it's easier to go on despising his once best friend.

Sitting here, back slumped uncomfortably, trying to think of anything other than the four girls not so far away, talking about the psycho who murdered that Virgil kid a few months ago and managed to some how stay out of prison, Richie seriously contemplates asking any of those girls if they know he can hear him, if they know he's not a moron and that he understands the words 'acquitted' and 'murderer'. He doesn't, of course, say anything. He just keeps sitting here, wondering how much longer it will be until it's time to go home, wondering if maybe today his father will actually drive him to his therapist appointment or if he'll have to walk – again.

The bell rings, and it's back to class. Back to another room with four walls and thirty kids who will never stop accusing him, back to awkward stretches of time and hiding his head almost underneath the desk and trying to remind himself that he should be numb enough to all the thinly masked hatred by now. Back to Hell, again. Back to another reminder that his life his over, that everything is shattered and jagged too far beyond repair, that there is nothing he can do to get anything resembling even a shred of life ever again.

-

Richie doesn't mind the walking, really. His therapists office is only a mile from the school, and it's not as if he has to walk across any major highways, not as if he's going to be run down by drivers under the influence of five o'clock rush hour and road rage or get caught in the middle of some down town feud. He likes the walk, a little, because it gives him a chance to be outside, breathe in air that isn't dragged down by the weight of cruel words and the toxic tang of doubt, see something that isn't a bricked school building and a out of control house. It gives him a chance to remember that there is more to life than subtly pointed fingers and screaming and self loathing and pain, remember that these is also a sky, and a road, and a life or two that aren't completely ruined.

The only time Richie ever really regrets having to walk from school to the office, the only time he wishes it was a smoke filled car with the windows rolled down and a radio set on some type of music that kept talking about whiskey and women, is when people pass him on the street. It isn't often that he runs into someone, that there is anything other than him walking down these cracking sidewalks, because after all this is a road that isn't exactly 'well traveled', but when he does, he finds himself compelled with a sudden urge to throw himself into the middle of the road and start praying for a semi truck.

It's awkward, in a word, walking this way, not having to stare down at his shoes for fear of accidentally meeting pure hatred eyes, and then suddenly seeing another person, another heartbeat and another pair of lungs. It's not as if he gets in any confrontations, or anything – no, a confrontation would mean that someone would have to publicly acknowledge his existence, that he was still – unfortunately – here. The person would walk past him, never saying a word, never doing anything but trying desperately not to look at him, never making one motion other than frantically denying he was in their path.

Thankfully, however, today is not one of those strange, heart ache days. Richie has nearly reached his destination, and there has been no uncomfortable, non-run ins with anyone else. He is genuinely grateful with whatever higher power that has decided to look down on him today, because he isn't quite sure he could handle his Walk of Peace being ruined – not today, anyway.

Today has been exceedingly crappy, which isn't exactly saying much, since everyday proceeding Virgil's death has been nothing but crappy, but for some reason, today has been just that more excruciating. Richie isn't sure why, and he isn't going to analyze the extra helpings of angst and pain and corrosive metal sorrow inside of him. Whatever it is, whatever the off detail that has made today that much more dreadful, it doesn't need to be explored. It just needs to be expelled.

Which is what therapy is for.

Or so the court told him, anyway.

He's pushing the door open before his mind registers that he's here, and he wonders briefly where his mind went for the last ten minutes of his walk. He thinks maybe he had a momentary zone out, a blanking out of his senses, and instead of being somewhat freaked he is somewhat relieved, and wonders – hopes that it might happen again, more often, in longer amounts of time. Not feeling, not remembering, not thinking, even for ten minutes, is more of a miracle than anything else he's experienced within the past months.

His mind clears rather quickly and he walks over to the desk where a red haired, overly dressed and overly perfumed woman in her mid forties gives him a quite look of contempt and hands him a sign in chart. He scribbles his initials, a sloppy 'R' and an even sloppier 'H' on one line, before writing 'Colin' and '3:45' on the next two. After finishing the sheet, he hands it back to receptionist and heads over to a small, lime green, practically cushion-less couch, where he waits for his therapist to finish whatever it is his therapist does when he's not therapizing him.

He usually doesn't have to wait long, ten, fifteen minutes at the most, before Colin appears in the oak framed door way with his usual bright smile and bright voice, inviting him to come sit down and share. Inviting, Richie repeats in his mind, and wants to hit something. That's the way Colin is, with his floppy brown mass of hair and warm, too green eyes and movie star white teeth, always talking to Richie like a friend, a confidante, like coming here is some sort of privilege, like his little cranberry covered chairs in his wood paneled room is VIP only.

It's not that Richie doesn't _like_ Colin, or anything – the man is kind, and really is trying to do his job. It's just that most of the time, and this is strange because Richie rarely has violent, bloody urges, he wants to grab Colin by his overly long brunette mane and make his head connect, painfully, with the walls. Richie just can't help but wanting to wipe that let-me-help-you, I'm-here-for-you, no-worries-it's-alright smile from the older mans face every time he sees it. Richie just can't help wanting to make Colin see that there is no reason, no possible explanation or motive for such a smile, for such feelings, for thinking that there is any way he can ever making anything better.

Richie doesn't enjoy having such dislike for his therapist, because it's not as if Colin has ever done anything to him, anything other than try to 'be there' for him, like only a court appointed, middle aged stranger in an unfamiliar environment can, and having such abhorrence for a man he doesn't actually know and will never attempt to know makes him feel as much as a fool as those who do the same to him. But he can't fight the feelings of utter disgust, can't stop his stomach from clenching and lurching a hundred stories high when Colin gives him that damn, infuriating smile.

"Richie?" Colin's voice, warm and soft and rolling in rich, firm good intentions calls from his office. "Are you ready to come in?"

As if Richie really has a choice. As if he can really just stand up and say, 'No, actually, I'm not read – I don't think I'll be ready for a long, long while, so if you don't mind, why don't you just _fuck_ off while I go play in traffic?' As if he can just walk away.

Richie instead nods, and pushes himself up from the couch, remembering to grab his bag and sling it over his shoulder before he begins heading into Colin's office. He enters the room, and is, like every other time he walks into this place, instantly hit with the aroma of butterscotch. When he first began coming here, the smell made him sick, and he actually ended up vomiting on one of Colin's nice pillows. Since then, he's somehow learned to tolerate the overly sweet smell. He supposes he's just learned to concentrate on other things, things like biting his lip so he doesn't talk so much, things like starring at Colin's letter opener and wondering, in a completely non-morbid and non-suicidal way, how sharp it is.

He takes a seat in one of the chair across from Colin's and lets his bag drop to the floor, the sound of his many school books hitting the wood merging with the sound of Colin closing the door. He says nothing until Colin is in his seat, crossing his legs over one another and giving him the same hopeful look as always, the same look that asks, 'please, just tell me what happened – you can trust me – you're safe here'.

"So," Colin begins, voice calm as he reaches for his legal pad and red ink pen. "How have you been since we last spoke, Richie?"

"You mean, since Monday?" Richie asks, his tone the perfect picture of sarcasm and uncaring.

Colin is, as always, disaffected by Richie's apathy, and merely nods. "Well, a lot can happen in two days, Richie."

Yeah, a lot _can_ happen. People can get killed, people can get blamed, lives can be ruined – people can be destroyed. Richie just stares down at the floor, and sees a piece of lint that he decides he's interested in studying from his chair, much more interested in than faking his way through conversation with Colin.

"Anything at school, at home? Anything in particular you wanted to talk about today?"

'The fact that you were accused of murder, by any chance', Richie hears whispered softly, a question forever hovering above him.

"Today sucked," Richie says, deciding that as much as he can't stand therapy three times a week, he hasn't reached the point where he can be distracted by a piece of lint for an hour. "Yesterday sucked, too. And I'm betting that tomorrow will probably also suck."

Colin nods, then scribbles down something on the yellow legal pad. For the first few weeks, Richie thought maybe Colin was writing things about him. Recently, he figured that Colin is probably doodling odd stick figures, or birds, or sunflowers or something, because he doesn't even say enough for anything to be written down. Not anymore. Not ever, if he really thinks about it.

"Do you think that it has anything to do with your attitude?" Colin questions, trying to meet Richie's eyes, even though Richie's gaze seldom leaves the floor. "If you think tomorrow will suck, if you wake up in the morning with the thought that the day will suck, then your day will, no matter what, inevitably…suck."

"If I'm me, then the day will, no matter what, inevitably suck," Richie snaps back.

Attitude, Richie thinks, almost snorting. What other attitude is he supposed to have?

Colin shifts in his seat, attempting to get more comfortable, speaking softly as he does. "It may seem impossible," he says. "To attempt, to even think about attempting at having a not-so-dark outlook on things. But it's a fact, proven, tested, that ones internal life effects ones external life, and vice versa. If you're anxious, if you're…if you have convinced yourself that this is the way your life will be, one horrible thing after the other, then that's what it will be. But if you can somehow find a way to think that maybe, just something will be alright, it can have a world of difference."

Richie doesn't answer, but of course, Colin was sure he wouldn't, so he continues, speaking as if he never stopped.

"Little things," he says. "Just telling yourself that waking up isn't quite so difficult, or telling yourself that you like how you look in a new t-shirt, can start getting you into a habit of looking on the brighter side of things again. Right now, trying to make yourself see things differently, see the world is good again… After all you've been through, it might seem like it can't happen, but it can. You just have to work it."

"Things aren't going to just start clicking in place again, Richie. You're not going to wake up and suddenly feel alright, and you're life isn't going to go back on its right path. You have to believe that you'll be able to feel alright again, you have to think, you have to know yourself that you can make it better."

"What do you think about that?" Colin questions. "About starting a habit, a routine of sorts. Wake up every morning, and before you get dressed or eat breakfast or brush your teeth, look in the mirror, and say one positive thing. Just one. It doesn't have to be anything big, just something like, 'My hair looks good today' or 'The lunch at school will be alright today'. If you can just tell yourself something other than, 'Today sucked, yesterday sucked, and tomorrow is going to suck', you might start to remember what it feels like to have optimism, something other than contempt."

Richie thinks that is the most ridiculous thing he's ever heard, but he doesn't say it. He doesn't say that telling himself 'my hair looks good today' or 'the lunch at school will be alight today' will not make him remember optimism, it will not make him remember that there was a time, a millennia ago when everything around him was a twisted, black hole, that every breath he took wasn't just malignant self hatred and regret. He doesn't say it, but he thinks about saying it.

"Can you promise me that, Richie?" Colin asks, actually sounding sincere. "Just try. It doesn't have to be tomorrow or the day after that – just, sometime, in the near future. Just the little things."

Promises are made to be broken, Richie wants to say, but instead he shrugs his shoulders. He supposes Colin takes it as psycho speak for 'yeah, sure, whatever', because Colin just gives one of those grins and scribbles something else onto his legal pad.

"All right, so, if you're not up to talking about anything school related, what's going on at home?"

Richie flexes his fingers, and wonders about popping all ten of them before emitting a vague, sarcastic, semi-insulting remark. Then he remembers that popping his fingers doesn't annoy Colin – because Colin is like, some inhuman thing, and no matter what anyone does, he never gets angry, or annoyed, or deterred; the freak – so there would be no point. So, instead, he heads straight for the vague, sarcastic, and semi-insulting remark.

"You know, home like things," he answers with disinterest.

"Has it been getting easier to speak with your parents?"

"Yeah," Richie says. "The other night at dinner I asked mom to pass the salt and I didn't even choke up. I think it was a real breakthrough."

Colin smiles, a genuine kind of smile, as if he actually believes that he and Richie are joking around, that this whole thing is some type of playful banter between old friends. "Believe it or not, Richie, that's actually something. Like I've been saying, it's the little things. Things that seem insignificant, but things that you can build on. The other night it was pass the salt, who knows what's next? The important thing is you're communicating with them. Even if it's on the smallest level of idle chatter, you're still talking to them, and that's the thing you're trying for. Conversation, any kind, anything as simple as a 'hello dad' or telling your mother her perfume is nice, anything helps. It's important to build a foundation. The more you talk to them, the easier the little things become, the larger things, more important conversations will begin to follow."

Only Colin could begin a rousing speech of how something as simple as 'pass the salt' could turn into the breakthrough which would ultimately reunite his family back into perfect suburban harmony.

Which is a stupid thought, even for Colin, because Richie's family had never been perfect, or harmonious, or even content; moderately functional, how Richie always thought of it. And he knows that no matter how many times he tells his mother her new hair cut looks nice or he tells his father that suit looks good, there is no way he and his parents could reach moderate functioning again.

"Richie," Colin says. "Do you think you can do that? Continue trying to talk to them?"

Richie shrugs again; because he thinks he might feel just a little bit guilty if he utterly and blatantly lied to a man like Colin by saying 'yes'. He removes his eyes from the floor, instead allowing his gaze to wander to a solid oak book case, each shelf covered with leather bound literature. He remembers days when he and Virgil would go to the library, when he would pick up books that weighed half as much as he did and were six inches thick, when Virgil would use his library card number to get on the internet and search for questionable content, when afternoons were spent trying to keep down laughter at idiotic things instead of staring at bookcases in a physiatrists office.

"Have you been eating much lately?"

Richie doesn't look at him, doesn't allow his eyes to snap onto that overly joy filled face, doesn't let his expression twist into surprise at the question, pulled out from thin air and seemingly asked on a whim. His eating habits have never been a question, never been brought up inside this office or outside of it, and the sudden inquiry was unexpected, unwanted.

He can feel Colin giving him a look of concern, attempting to analyze what lies underneath his over sized sweater, and he fights the urge to slouch back even further into his chair. Instead, he merely curls his hands around the edge of the seat, and goes back to starring at the floor.

"All right," Colin says, and Richie can hear him scribbling something onto that legal pad; that ridiculous, annoying legal pad, the one Richie just wants to tear into a million pieces and throw into the fire. "Let me rephrase that. Have you been eating at _all_?"

Riche wants to say 'duh', but instead he mumbles a rather disgruntled, "Yeah."

"How many meals would you say, on average, you eat a day?"

"I don't know," Richie murmurs, telling himself it's a stupid question and there is no need to start backtracking through the week, no reason he should start trying to remember the last meal he had. "Three," he says, since it's a safe answer, what he assumes is the right answer.

"I'm not trying to accuse you of anything, Richie," Colin says, sounding almost alarmed, as if the question had bristled Richie instead of simply catching him off guard. "It seems as if you've lost a little weight in the past few weeks, that's all. You're about, what? 5'7, 5'8 perhaps. I think a healthy weight for boys around your age, your height is something around one hundred and forty pounds, maybe a little less, or a little more. I'm um, not exactly sure. Eating right, Richie, making sure you're getting the proper nutrients is important, not only for physical health, but mental health, too."

"I eat," Richie says, keeping his voice at a nice, easy level of complete and utter indifference, tone cold and light and infused with every bitter edged emotion of emptiness he felt. "All the time."

Colin's eyes, those abnoxious ocean water green eyes that Richie hates so much, are narrowed, unconvinced, and Richie knows better than to actually meet them. "I'm really just saying, maybe gaining a few pounds, getting track of your eating habits – it will do you good."

"I exercise," Richie explains, because three times a week in therapy is already too much, three times a week in this cramped office that smells like butterscotch and this man who is practically kindness incarnate, because questions about his family, his school life, whether or not he's made any progress reconnecting with the kids at school or if he's joined the academic team is just _too much_, and he is not going to deal with this overly sweet shrinks thinly veiled accusations of an eating disorder. Because it's already so much, too much; he can't deal with anymore. He barely deals with this. "A lot. Always walking, always running around. Staying active burns calories. I have a fast metabolism."

He hears Colin scribbling onto his notebook, probably writing things like, '_denial_' and maybe even smearing that ugly, over hyped word, '_anorexia_', too. Richie just chews on the inside of his cheek and picks a scuff on the flooring, just a shade lighter than the rest of the floor, three inches long and barely a fingernails length deep, to study.

"Maybe you should start adding some more protein into your diet, more carbs, or something. You could get your parents to take you to see a nutritionist down at the local clinic…"

Richie bites his lip for a split second, holding back a rather vehement _fuck you_. He breathes, just a little, a tiny, shallow intake of breath before managing, "I _eat_."

"Why are you being so passionate about this, Richie?" Colin questions in that oh so low, oh so irritating, oh so I-care-about-you-let-me-save-you voice. "It seems whenever we talk, you aren't really interested in making a lot of conversation. You mostly communicate with shrugs and grunts. Which, really, is fine; I know sometimes you don't feel completely comfortable talking to me. But why are you speaking so strongly about this?"

Richie wants to say, 'Because I don't want to _deal_ with anymore, I don't want you to tell my dad that I'm a fucking _anorexic_ just because I don't weigh as much as the average kid, I don't want people watching me eat or telling me what I need to have for lunch to gain five more pounds, I don't want people telling me that just because my best friend was _murdered_ I have to stop eating.'

Richie wants to ask, 'How the hell am I supposed to keep food down, anyway? How can I take a drink or swallow or _look_ at food without thinking about blood and black and wanting to just die all over again? How am I supposed to want to fucking _live_ anymore?'

Instead, Richie says, "Do you have a cat?"

"...excuse me, Richie?"

"Do. You. Have. A. Cat." Richie makes sure each word is slow, deliberate, and he's trying to remain calm in the face of more problems, more diseases he'll be informed he has, more therapy and more lies and more comfort and more whispers and more of everything that makes him want to scream. "You seem like a man who would have a cat. A white one. With like, golden eyes. Name it Sunshine, or something."

"I'll tell you what," Colin says, and Richie hears the soft, not nearly exasperated smile on his lips. "How about you come in tomorrow, and then we can discuss my cat. Today, we can talk about eating."

-

Richie is literally a centimeter away from pulling out every single hair in his head.

Now, in addition to his weight – or, according to his oh so loving therapist, lack there of – being placed under a microscope, in addition to having every aspect of his life analyzed and broken down and spelled out in front of him one more day a week, he gets to go home and tell his parents he needs a physical – just to make sure he's still a healthy, growing boy.

If he could, Richie would take this yellow note, the one just a little too big to fit completely in his pocket, throw it to the frozen, too grey ground, and stomp until his foot goes numb. But, of course, he can't. If he gets rid of the note, the one with scribbles and addresses and a very clear message to take him to the hospital, if he doesn't tell his parents he's suspected of starving himself for some insane, ridiculous reason, then Colin will just call them, and he'll be even more screwed than he already is. Colin will probably add another day to the schedule, and his parents will probably – well, they will probably feel even more inclined to do nothing but silently fear and despise him from afar.

Lovely.

So Richie keeps the note in his pocket, and tells himself that he's fine, reminds himself that he was just binging out on carrots and slightly over due cartons of milk from the cafeteria just today, reminds himself that there is no reason for him to be going to therapy four times a week and that it's not his fault everything around him is jagged and Hell inspired black and hurtful.

His house isn't far from the center where he goes for his – probably – soon to be daily session with Colin, and on good days, days when he doesn't have to see anyone on the streets, days when he manages to go for five minutes without thinking about Virgil, days when his legs and arms and head don't feel like too fragile glass, he can make it to the sanctuary of his little room in about forty minutes. On days like today, however, days that suck the little life he has in him, days that are just imprinted with burning images of condemning glances and the smell of rotting death, it takes him longer, an hour, two, maybe more, to reach home.

It's okay, though. No one notices, so he doesn't get in trouble. No one cares, so he doesn't get yelled at. So it doesn't matter.

It probably never has.

As he walks, Richie decides that he hates cats. They smell funny, like old people – hopeless, dirty, fragile; things Richie doesn't like. Things that make his skin crawl and his stomach curdle, just like the smell of butterscotch in Colin's room. He can't stand anything that smells so sweet, anything that makes him think of innocence and pretty, unbroken things, in the same way he can't stand things that smell so dank, lost and uncertain. And, if anyone can tell the smell of being lost, of being broken, of being hurt and betrayed, it's him.

He got used to those smells, that taste when he was in a little cell, all alone, going crazy with the white walls and voices he realized he was making up to keep himself going completely deaf with all the silence.

Richie shakes his head, tells himself not to remember that. He's outside, outside where there are trees and grass, in a place where life goes beyond TV sets and gossip, a place where everything is calm and good and surviving. He takes in a deep breath, trying to dispel all the uneasiness from his body, putting it back into the air. He speeds up, moving with just a fraction more momentum, then decides that he is in no hurry to get home tonight – to get home, ever.

He doesn't notice the cherry red Pinto, covered in an aura and bringing a presence that can only be described as fire, until it is going along right beside him, until someone is saying his name in a tone that is not wicked or caring, until he is actually stopping on the sidewalk and looking into the drivers seat, genuinely surprised that he's not all that surprised by the multi-toned hair and blank expression he sees.

"Foley," and the name isn't sneered, isn't spoken like something unclean, merely spoken – just like any word, like any other syllable.

He doesn't say anything, because he's not exactly sure what's appropriate for this occasion. He isn't sure whether to say, 'Francis' or 'Hotstreak' or 'Hey, man,' or 'What the fuck, dude?', so he just blinks and stares at the car with eyes as expressionless as the ones still glued on him.

"Yeah, nice to see you too," Hotstreak murmurs, almost to himself, almost in a mock hurt tone but more in the same tone of disinterest as he spoke before. "Get in."

"Why should I get in a car with you?" Richie questions, tone dead pan and eyes still refusing to meet Hotstreak's.

Hotstreak rolls his eyes, and tries to hold in a heavy sigh of annoyance. "Because I told you to."

"Well," Richie says, realizing that if he keeps walking, Hotstreak will most likely follow him, and that he doesn't care enough to not get in the car, "who can argue with logic like that?" He leans down and opens the passenger door, then slides into the seat, placing his bag on his lap.

He barely has the door closed when Hotstreak puts his foot on the acceleration and the car is moving forward. Richie doesn't bother with a seat belt, mostly because he doesn't see the point, and partly because he doubts there are actually seat belts in the car. It's been a while since he's seen Hotstreak around town, months, four or five maybe – he stopped coming to school, he stopped wandering around random places Richie happened to be in, and he wasn't really in the villain business anymore, which doesn't actually matter, since Richie isn't really in the super hero business anymore, either. But it has been a while, and Richie can't think of a possible reason Hotstreak is giving him a ride.

Is Hotstreak even giving him a ride? The other male just told him to get in the car – he never said were they were going.

"Did you want something?" Richie asks, staring straight ahead at the black dashboard.

"Can't I just catch up with an old acquaintance?" Hotstreak asks, one hand on the wheel and the other on the window, fingers tapping some odd little tune on the glass.

Richie doesn't sigh, he doesn't get angry, he doesn't even flinch. He merely continues starring forward, his hands resting immobile on the backpack. "Do you want something?" he says again.

"Yeah – okay," Hotstreak says. He drives for a few moments, a minute of silence that is strangely completely un-strange settling around them. "You haven't by any chance done anything to piss off Ebon lately, have you?"

"I exist, don't I?" Richie says, turning his head to look out the window. "That seems to be pissing everyone off lately."

"Alright, let me ask this again," Hotstreak says, already annoyed. "Has _Gear_ done anything to piss off Ebon lately?"

Richie closes his eyes for a whole half second, a whole fourth of a moment in time when something other than nothing is racing in his mind and he wonders, asks himself how in the hell Hotstreak knows, how Ebon could know – how could anybody know?

Obviously, Hotstreak must notice the flicker of curiosity, the slightest tensing of Richie's shoulder, because he sighs and starts speaking again. "As slow as everyone in this place is, not everyone is a complete moron. Static Shock stopped saving everything when Virgil Hawkins died, Gear stopped helping Static Shock save everything when Richard Foley – you – were in jail. Did you really think no one would notice? That everyone in town would just take it as a coincidence that Dakota's very own self proclaimed protectors of like, the world didn't show up when you and Hawkins weren't on the scene anymore? We ain't stupid."

Richie wants to argue that point, really – thinks he could make a pretty good case, but he's still wrapping his head around the fact that everyone, the cops, the kids, the parents, all of them, have figured out that Virgil was Static and that he was Gear, everyone knows and no one – no one ever said a word.

There wasn't anything in the newspaper about Dakota's savior being murdered, no one ever brought up the fact that super heroes are infamous for integrity, honesty, and the total lack of not murdering their best friends and partners in saving the day in court. No one even put Static Shock on Virgil's grave, no one even said 'thank you'.

God, Richie hates these people.

"Wow," Hotstreak says, and he's just a little shocked, just the tiniest fraction, that he was the one informing the other about this. "You tellin' me that for all those brain cells you got in the blond little head of yours, you couldn't figure out that this town had figured you out?"

"No one – " Richie begins, but realizes it's pointless to tell _Hotstreak_ how incredibly stupid it is that these people, the very ones Static – Virgil saved, hadn't even acknowledged his achievements; hadn't acknowledged Richies. "No…Gear hasn't done anything, to anyone, in a while. Especially Ebon."

Hotstreak nods, a very slight turning of his head, and turns the wheel slowly as he rounds a corner. "Good," he mumbles, mostly to himself.

"Why?" Richie ventures, allowing the side of his head to rest on the window. He peers out at the scenery, slowly passing by, and wishes that there weren't so many trees. Wishes that Dakota was just a barren wasteland, nothing but dirt and blood and concrete.

For a moment, a few actually, there is another silence. One where Richie finds that even though Hotstreak isn't answering his question, he isn't annoyed, he doesn't want to scream; he just breathes, he just keeps looking out the window. Hotstreak takes another turn, letting out a soft breath as he does.

"Ebon and his crew, they're looking for you," Hotstreak informs him.

And the only thing Richie can do at this piece of information is let out a bitter, dry, hollow based laugh, something more of a grunt than anything. "Really. Well, I can't think of any reason," Richie says. "And besides if their looking for me well…it's not hard to find me." He glances over at Hotstreak, starring at him for a second longer than any other normal person would. "You found me."

"Look, Ebon is an idiot – okay? His crew, their idiots. Everyone in this town is a fucking idiot, and I'm sure you know that," Hotstreak says, sounding vaguely annoyed, but more or less apathetic. "They don't know anything, and hell, half the time they don't even know what their doing, but they know – "

"Ebon and his crew?" Richie asks, looking over at the other male once again. "Or the people in this town?"

"Ebon," Hotstreak says, and after a moment adds, "And these people." His eyes dart to Richie for a moment, looking at a lock of too blond hair, before returning to the road. "Ebon and the rest of them, they know Virgil was Static, and even with them all having a collective IQ of about, twenty, they figured out that you, Foley, that you were Gear."

"And now they want to what?" Richie questions. "Like, kick my ass or, something? Mess me up? Does Ebon realize that he can't mess me up anymore than – "

Hotstreak rolls his eyes and takes another curve, sharper this time, and Richie bumps his forehead on the glass. "I don't have to deal with your fucking self pity, okay? I didn't spend the last three days practically stalking you so that I could pick you up and get you started on how much your life sucks now. I picked you up for a reason. So be quiet for a second, and let me talk."

Richie rubs his head, and wonders briefly if there will be a knot there in the morning. Then he questions, "Stalking?"

"In case you didn't notice," Hotstreak says, "I ain't been around in a while. Even before Static – Virgil – and… I didn't know where you were, and it wasn't like I could just ask around. Even on the streets, no one talks about Gear anymore. I didn't know your schedule so I had to – You know, fuck you. I thought I told you to shut up."

Richie remembers not seeing Hotstreak, remembers noticing that Hotstreak wasn't around and wondering where he'd gone long before Virgil died. So he doesn't say anything, he just pats his head once and looks out the window, and waits for Hotstreak to continue.

Hotstreak lets a beat pass, looks over his shoulder to see if Richie is finished talking, then starts speaking again. "So Ebon finds out Virgil is Static, and he's pissed right. Cause, Ebon never got any revenge, never got to hurt Static back for all the hurt he caused. The rest of the crew, their just as pissed. Talon is tearing up everything, everyone else is just going insane, all because Static is gone."

"So after a while, after all their little breakdowns are done, their thinking, Static wasn't the only hero screwing with them. There was Static's sidekick, that Gear kid – the one with the weird outfit and all the gizmos, the one always saving Static's ass. The crew decides they find this kid, they can get their revenge, right? Well, they sit down and have to think for all of five minutes before they put two and two together and figure out that Richie Foley is the sidekick. Only problem is, he's in jail, he's on trial for murder."

"They decide to wait. They, apparently, ain't as dense as some idiots in this place, and they know that this Foley kid didn't kill Virgil, that side kicks don't turn to the dark side and shoot up their friends, and they know that he's gonna get off. So they decide their gonna wait for the trial to be over, then they'll get him. Only thing is, when Foley's finally acquitted, they can't _find_ him. He's fucking disappeared, or something. Stays in house arrest for like, a month, and not even the reporters figure it out until he shows up back at school one day."

"Ebon decides one day, after school on this kids trip – one of his many trips – to his therapist alone, they'll pick 'im up, and they'll take him back to the base, and they will mess the kid up, they'll kill this kid. But then they start picking up the papers and see that Foley is still on the front cover. Everyone is still watching Foley, even though no one is talking to him, he's still the only topic – everyone is still swarming around this kid. If they kill him, if they even talk to him, someone is gonna notice. If he goes up missing, if someone finds him in the sewers or something, the police are gonna look into it. People are bound to get suspicious, and someone is bound to point the finger at them. And they ain't going done for what their planning to do."

"So they decide to wait. They'll wait, until all the hype is down and people finally get it into their skulls that Foley isn't a murderer and leave him alone for once, then they'll get him. But then suddenly one day it's four months since Static was gunned down and everyone is still watching this kid. And they're getting impatient. And suddenly it doesn't matter if they go to trial or what – they're itching for blood. They're looking for Foley, they're looking for you."

Richie doesn't breathe for a full thirty seconds, doesn't think and doesn't move and doesn't do anything, anything other than lay his head on the window, feel the cold, damp air that has gathered on the outside of the glass being transferred to his skin. He feels Hotstreak watching him, waiting for some type of response, for anything, but he just doesn't feel as if he give it – anything, that is.

An initial shock sets in, one that raises the question, 'Why do they even think they'll get any satisfaction from hurting me anymore?' He wonders what type of feeling one could get, even someone like Ebon, from killing him; what kind of revenge, what kind of pride is there in knowing you destroyed a boy who doesn't even have anything left?

Richie finds himself with an utter lack of caring at the threats, at any of the words Hotstreak has spoken – though a part of his brain is still a little caught on the whole 'practically stalking' part.

"So they are going to come and kill me," Richie mutters. "Huh."

Hotstreak's hands grip the steering wheel, just a bit tighter than he meant to, and his knuckles start turning white – a pale, angry color, one he should be used to seeing but never really is. "I tell you that Ebon and his gang are out for your blood and all you can say is 'huh'." He shakes his head, glancing out the window as he does. "Figures you'd be so fucking ungrateful."

Richie fights back a snort. "You want me to be grateful? For _what_?"

"For _what_? How about for warning your sorry ass that you were gonna get the beating of a life time? How about for telling you that Ebon is comin' after you with everything he's got? For trying to… For fuckin' tryin' to save you from gettin' killed!" Hotstreak says, voice growing in frustration.

"I didn't know you cared, Francis," he says, nonchalant and easy as lets his head lull back, lay on the head rest. "I'm…touched."

"The only thing I care about is how it'll look to the cops, to anyone else who bothers to care about who killed that psycho Foley kid. Not everybody knows that I ain't messin' with the Meta Breed no more, especially the cops. Not everybody knows that I got my own place, a semi decent, mostly legal job, that I'm a law abiding citizen of this fair city. Now, I ain't about to go around publicizing it – people know I ain't F-stop no more, people know I've stopped crispin' people as a hobby, some one is gonna try to stir up trouble. Cops gonna come around, gonna start watching for me to screw up again. Right now, I don't have to deal with anyone's shit – even Ebon's left me alone. But you show up, dead, and everybody is runnin' around, everyone starts going crazy."

"Everyone starts thinking that you're Hotstreak, you've kept a low profile for a while, and you must've done it for a reason," Richie murmurs.

"And that reason is so I could finally get my revenge on Gear," Hotstreak finishes, sighing.

Richie nods to himself, thinking aloud. "So, if you come up here, watch me, talk to me, tell me that I'm in danger and I save myself, there's no reason for anyone to find you out and screw up your new life of luxury," Richie says. "But, at the same time…you help me out, and you're missing your chance for revenge against Gear, and you're being something akin to a decent person."

"You see my dilemma."

Richie shakes his head, flexes his hands again, then stares at Hotstreak. "So in the end you decided you'd rather see me live than be pinned with a murder?"

"It was tough decision," Hotstreak admits, and Richie is pretty sure he isn't joking. "Not that it isn't a little fantasy of mine to see you get your ass kicked by my former crew, but I think I like freedom more than I'd like seeing you too bloodied up to move." He glances at Richie, meeting those eyes for the first time since he'd picked the boy up. "I think," he adds as a genuine afterthought.

Richie doesn't answer, doesn't even bother to glance at him, and this annoys Hotstreak. Bothers him because he hunted the blond down, took time from his own schedule to find him, warn him that things were going to turn upside down, warn him that he was probably going to get _killed_, and he won't even meet Hotstreak's eyes.

This makes Hotstreak blood boil, makes something behind his eyes flare with only slight cataclysmic heat, because it's not often – it's not ever – that he goes out of his way to save someone. He's not a superhero, and he doesn't give a damn about anything, and he could care less if the very world was coming to it's end, because as long as he was fine, as number one in his book had his skin, he didn't have anything to worry about it.

Which, of course, is his motive for being here, for picking Richie up and telling him Ebon was planning on coming after him, but it still doesn't change the fact that Hotstreak had a moment of good will towards a fellow outcast of society, and it doesn't change the fact that Richie seems like there is nothing he could care less about.

"What the hell makes you think I even care, anymore?" Richie says softly, his breath, light and warm, hitting the window, fogging up the few inches he's near. He doesn't think Hotstreak hears him, and even if Hotstreak has, neither of them really care, so he starts speaking again. "Right. I forgot. You don't actually care, you just don't want to end up accused of a crime you didn't commit."

"It can break the best of us," Hotstreak says, then begins slowing the car. He turns to face Richie, his eyes fixated on where Richie's would be if Richie would actually face him. "And it can break the worst. I just don't want to have to put up with anymore of this shit, anyway."

"You could leave," Richie interjects, and somehow manages to meet cold, flame deep eyes without having to suppress a shiver. "There's nothing making you stay here," he says, almost a whisper. 'Not like me,' he silently adds. 'You don't have all these chains holding you down. People masquerading as parents, court orders, probation.'

Hotstreak shrugs, then glances out Richie's window. He wonders if Richie has even noticed if they've stopped or not. "Don't have the money yet, smart boy. But then again, that's not really any of your damn business, is it?"

"No…no, I guess it isn't," Richie murmurs. He's suddenly so tired, so ready to crawl out of this door and go home, curl into blankets and wonder if he'll actually sleep without waking up screaming tonight. "Are we done?"

Hotstreak nods. "For now," he answers. "We're here, anyway."

Richie's eyes, which were drooping, his eyelids feeling weighed and pulled by burdens of sleep and a kind of ever present, bitter toned guilt, are suddenly widening, staring at Hotstreak with a kind of calm, unworried curiosity and genuine confusion, and the slightest glints of apprehension. Hotstreak finds himself oddly calmed by the fact that Richie, this kid, this geek who still can't take care of himself, is still afraid of him.

"Your house, asshole."

Richie turns his head, and seems to have a bit of actual surprise when his gaze lands upon his house. "How did you - ?" he begins to question, then stops himself. "Ah, yes. Practically stalking." He dares a glance at Hotstreak.

"For your own protection," Hotstreak mumbles, annoyed that he is sitting in the driveway of Foley's house and he still has a Foley in his passenger seat.

"Of course," Richie says.

"Look, just stay out of trouble, and don't get your ass murdered. Then you and I won't have a problem, and we won't have to have another…chat. Okay?"

Richie nods, just wanting to get out of the cramped car that he has suddenly realized smells too much like ashes and tire track glass for his liking. He thinks it's another one of those odd smells, another one that assaults him too deeply and makes him sick. "Whatever," he says as he slides out of the seat. His feet are already on the ground when Hotstreak has a firm hand around his lower arm, and yanks him back.

It hurts, a lot, more than it should, because it's been so long since anyone actually gripped Richie this hard, with the intent to hurt him or not. It's been so long since anyone has touched him, at all, that just feeling the pads of Hotstreak's fingertips on the back of his hand hurt.

"You mean, 'Yes, Hotstreak, whatever you say – I'll keep myself alive,'" Hotstreak all but growls.

Richie pulls at his arm, frantic to rid himself of the touch, to get all those little pieces of flesh off of his, because he has forgotten how painful it is to be like this, to have someone touching him. "Let me go," he nearly whimpers, still trying to disengage himself from the pain warped grip.

"Say it," Hotstreak orders, angry and serious, his eyes hard and his mouth set into a firm line.

"Y-yes Hotstreak, whatever you say – I'll keep myself alive! God, just let go of me!"

There is this hint of strain, of skin scorched ache emitting from his throat into his voice, and Hotstreak lets him go in an instant. Releases Richies arm, which felt much too small in his grip, much too weak, like the boys bones are nothing more than paper cut edges, like if he squeezed any harder on the skin the arm would just collapse in his grip, leaving bone and muscle and too hot skin crumbling onto him.

"Good," Hotstreak says, staying nonchalant, even though he wants to slam his hand against something hard and go run it under scalding hot water. No one should feel that brittle, that breakable, even to him. It's odd, and he isn't sure he likes the feeling of such fragile things in his grip. Too easy to go back into old ways, and such. "Keep yourself safe, Foley. I'll be seein' ya."

Richie scrambles out of the car, pulling his backpack with him, and he slams the door shut, before he even replies to Hotstreak's last words. His arm hurts, so much, and the only thing he can do is keep from fainting from long forgotten stinging, caused by long for gotten sensations. Gripping his bag in one hand, he turns and runs for the door, throws it open, and heads for his room, quick and quiet, never saying a word.

He makes it to his window in time to watch Hotstreak's car speed away, and something inside of him turns very, very cold.

People are talking again, more than usual – but that's to be expected, he guesses, seeing as how it is nearly the four month anniversary of Virgil's death. God, he hates the way people describe it as an 'anniversary', like it's something to be celebrated. His best friend was murdered, and people were treating the occasion like it was some party, or something.

Hotstreak is watching him, threatening him, stalking him. And yeah, sometimes Richie has thought about someone from his past, anyone, talking to him again, acknowledging that he still existed as a person and not just a story on the front page of the tabloids, but threats from the local bully with pyro, as well as psycho, tendencies, wasn't exactly what he had in mind.

Ebon, Ebon and his entire gang, are going to come after him. Ebon is going to try to kill him, all in some crusade for some warped, sick kind of revenge.

Of course, it's just another day in the life of Richard Foley.

Just another day in the life of a boy who has nothing to live for.


End file.
